In the street of the vaults

The problem with having built up such a romanticized notion of Arcos before coming is not only that I seek out quintessential—or perhaps stereotypical—Spanish places and experiences, but that the town so eagerly provides (the motto of Arcos, in fact, is something like “Where dreams become reality”). I say this is a problem because, when it comes to apartments, my roommate Patra and I were looking for something very specific. We didn’t just want an apartment, no. You can live in an apartment anywhere. We wanted an apartment building with plants in the entryway, azulejo tile up the stairs, a beautiful view, and a neighborhood that would remind us every day that we were somewhere different. No matter if our daily walk to school is thirty to forty minutes long and definitely uphill both ways.

The moment we walked into the apartment on Calle Bóvedas, we immediately felt at home. There were plants, tile, a family on the first floor with a little white dog named Blanquito, a red roof-top terrace with a stunning view of the lake, mountains, and bell towers of Arcos’ cathedrals. Our apartment has floor to ceiling windows, barred in by distinctly Spain ironwork and uniquely vaulted ceilings that I’m sure my architect dad will appreciate (I’ll send you a picture soon, Dad!)

The benefit of living in a smallish town is that we saw the apartment, went to see another few, and decided that we were happiest with the first. By the time we’d made our decision, Angela, the woman who’d shown us the first apartment, had left her home (which she also showed us). We talked to her son briefly, who gave us Angela's number on a piece of paper from a pad distributed by Viagra. Then we wandered back into town to get something to eat and happened to run into Angela on the way. We pretty much made our deal there, in the middle of the street, next to a cathedral several hundred years old.

Today we met with Antonio, Angela’s husband and our landlord, to sign the contract. He seemed to be delighted by the fact that Patra has dark hair and I have light hair, calling us “la luna y el sol” (sun and the moon) and “la rubia y la morena” (the blonde and the brunette, more or less). Then he proceeded to discuss our marital prospects for the next hour or so (including his disappointment that his son was already engaged, thus making him unavailable to us) before finally letting us start to move things in.

But now it’s ours for the next eight months, our own beautiful piece of Spanish architecture, a home that is both our dream and our reality.